


A Spell to Translate Sounds into Words

by old_blue



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Dirty Talkin', But Everyone Has Fun, Drugged Sex, Fluff, I mean it, Kinky Shit, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Angst, Other, PWP, Telepathy, Tentacles, Tentacles Go Everywhere, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-19 05:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/old_blue/pseuds/old_blue
Summary: On a diplomatic trip to a neighboring dimension, Stephen meets a very friendly alien. They enjoy a little diplomacy of their own.





	A Spell to Translate Sounds into Words

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know... Really. This is really fluffy, though.
> 
> I had this vague thought that there weren't nearly enough tentacle fics here in our little Doctor Strange MCU corner and then this happened. And I was stuck on my long fic and needed a distraction. And writing this un-broke my brain, so... Yay? Enough excuses.
> 
> Uh... don't read this if tentacles squick you out ;)

He's been here for five days already. In the capital city of an alien world. Trying to normalize relations between their two species, and establish a shared defense that will benefit everyone.

 _It's a challenge_ , he thinks.

The city—and this whole world, actually—have names that are just hisses and clicks. The translation spell he'd cast on himself is doing its absolute best to make sense of what his ears are hearing. But some things just defy translation.

Names are the hardest.

The name of the city he's visiting: _Place Where Many Live Together In Peace On The Edge Of The Great Brine Lake_. The name of his very friendly host in this place: _Yellow-Spotted Greenish One._ Which, he supposes, is quite apt, really. For the sake of his sanity, though, Stephen decides to think of the other sorcerer as Yellow-Spotted.

And when Yellow-Spotted refers to him, the spell helpfully translates the sounds into what must be their literal meaning: _Tall Human Sorcerer With Red On Him._ The red referring to the cloak, he supposes. He almost prefers the clicks and hisses that make up his name to hearing _that_ in his head over and over again.

And pronouns...

There is no gender here. No males and no females. Everyone is a hermaphrodite—which he'd taken an embarrassingly long time to figure out—and, therefore, no real way for his spell to translate pronouns exactly. So he'd learned to recognize the particular-sounding hiss that, in their language, refers to another person: _os._

And, after five days, he's starting to need the translation less and less—sounds that were once incomprehensible resolving to pictures in his mind before the spell has a chance to catch up. Probably a sign that he's already been here too long.

 _If he stays here for a few more weeks_ , Stephen thinks, _he might not need the translation spell at all._

 

***

  

Yellow-Spotted is a good host. A scientist, Stephen knows—he's seen os's lab—and a sorcerer. A talented one. They'd toured this world's version of a Sanctum. And had quite a lively discussion about magic theory, and os had shown him some interesting spells for extracting salt from briny water. Might come in handy someday... possibly.

Os is also curious, kind, and considerate. Totally and completely enthralled with Stephen's stories about life in the other dimensions, his work as a doctor, and with human beings in general. And, Stephen finds that os has made being here, and dealing with the slow bureaucracy of alien diplomacy—as tedious and mind-numbing as he'd found it back on Earth—just about bearable.

Still, the alien-ness of this place is enough to keep him wrong-footed, feeling like he's just taken a hit of LSD. Inter-dimensional jet lag, maybe...

His host had taken him to visit the market in the city center earlier, after another morning of interminable meetings. And Yellow-Spotted had herded him around carefully—one soft tentacle in constant contact with his skin, probably to see how he was feeling about all of this newness—as they moved through the crowded and narrow spaces between stalls. No other humans here—contact had only recently been re-established between the two dimensions—but plenty of other species from neighboring realms and worlds. Limbs and skin and colors and hair and fur and scales in every possible configuration. And all around them, pressing close: the natives. Many-tentacled, colorful, and big-eyed. The unending din of layered clicks, hisses, whistles, and snaps from all sides—voices from throughout the multiverse—leaving his sub-par translation spell overwhelmed and confused. _Useless_.

And yet...

So much of this was absolutely familiar to him, universal ( _unidimensional?_ ) to all markets everywhere: goods laid out on woven mats or piled overflowing in baskets—some things that might be salted fish, but mostly stacks and stacks of hard-shelled insects—merchants and customers haggling over prices, street musicians playing some kind of stringed instruments while shoppers paused to enjoy the music or passed by quickly, ignoring the basket on the ground that was clearly set out for donations. The smell, and feel of magic around him—almost everyone here uses it casually, for everything—and the unmistakable flicker of orange sparks out of the corner of his eye as someone casts a spell.

But some of it was simply incomprehensible to him. The large metal globe that spun slowly on a pedestal at which all passers-by—including Yellow-Spotted—stopped to spread their many limbs out before it, and then sketch a precise triangle on the surface with the tip of a careful tentacle. The baskets and baskets of rocks—plain, gray rocks, as far as Stephen can tell—that customers spent time carefully inspecting and haggling over. The way everyone touched everyone else as they passed each other, even him. _Especially him_. Tentacles lingering on his skin a bit longer than on others, perhaps trying to understand this odd creature that walked on two legs and had fur on his head.

Stephen knew they were empaths, of course. No way he could miss that, not when emotions that were clearly not his own seeped into his mind with every touch. Sorting out what was _him_ and what was _other_ had become challenging.

Yellow-Spotted had struggled to explain it to him later when they were out of the chaos of the market and heading back to os's home—the touching. "It's a greeting. A way to say hello to those you know. And a way to understand people you do not know yet. A way to understand how they are feeling. And who they are right now. And a reassurance that we are all together and alive and a part of the universe."

"Well that clears _that_ up," Stephen had said, and Yellow-Spotted made the quick soft clicking sound that he knows is a laugh.

 

***

 

And now...

It's comfortable here in Yellow-Spotted's tiny apartment ( _house?_   _den?_ ) with its tiny round windows overlooking the white-crusted banks of the brine lake—an ocean, really. The bright white light of the day has already faded into a spectacularly green sunset that leaves the salt crystals along the edge of the lake glittering like emeralds. A luminescent purple night will soon follow. No clouds in the sky, though there had been a spectacular thunderstorm every evening for the past four days.

 _Not_ _home_ , Stephen thinks, _but_ _not_ _bad_.

He finds himself on the edge of exhaustion after another busy day out with Yellow-Spotted—too many meetings with too many sorcerers too set in their ways to ever bend. Too many nights of not sleeping well. No nightmares here so far, but the air is just a little too humid and too salty to be comfortable, and he spends hours tossing and turning on a bed made for a different kind of body.

And whatever os has fed him tonight—served on an elaborately-painted mat on the floor, of course, because their mouths are under their bodies here—has left him with a strong but pleasant buzzing sensation in his brain.

Something to celebrate his last night here before he returns home tomorrow, os explained. Apparently, a lot of the food here contains substances that alter brain chemistry. Whatever it is, it feels nice, and soon they're both laughing and clicking together over dinner, sharing stories about magic gone awry and life in each of their home worlds, all translated into the bizarre hilarity of a technical manual.

He's even gotten used to his host's wandering tentacles. The constant touching had felt unwelcome and intrusive before, but now it just feels... _comforting_. And he feels pretty good right now. After dinner, just sitting on Yellow-Spotted's... _sofa?_ —some kind of soft sitting-thing anyway—with os's many appendages sliding over him...

He's never really been into too much physical contact, outside of sex, but here he doesn't mind so much. Customs of the place, and all... The only other... _being_ he allows this close is the cloak, which right now seems to feel just as mellow as he does, draped languidly over the back of the alien sofa, impersonating a blanket.

 _Well, it's honestly not too bad_ , he thinks. The tentacles are soft, with a slightly bumpy texture, and smooth and dry. _Warm_. Not as repulsive as he'd been expecting. And Yellow-Spotted is not a monster. Os is a colleague and a friend, and quite an attractive shade of green, like dappled sunlight falling on mossy ground. Not repulsive at all, actually... 

Another tentacle wraps around his waist, the tip just pushing under the edge of his shirt and stroking along his belly. Stephen knows his hosts have no real concept of personal boundaries—touch is just another means of communication here. And it actually does make understanding the feelings behind their words easier. He leans a little closer to Yellow-Spotted's pleasantly squishy body and os makes a slow, soft click that the spell can't seem to translate.

Stephen can feel the edges of the other sorcerer's thoughts, the closeness making them stronger and clearer in his head: _comfort, happiness, affection, curiosity._

And also something else... _Arousal? Excitement?_ He's not exactly sure, but he can feel it humming through his body, chasing hot and cold through his limbs. So bizarre to have these sensations bouncing back and forth between the two of them. _Far too easy_ , he thinks, _to lose himself in someone else's head._

Yellow-Spotted draws back a bit and turns one huge, orange eye toward him. Os runs one soft tentacle gently along Stephen's jaw line, ruffling the beard he needs to trim, says, "I would very much like to mate with you."

" _What?_ " Stephen can't help laughing at that. His translation spell must be fucked up again. He'll have to recast it...

Os hesitates for a few moments, blinks a translucent eyelid slowly—Stephen could swear os is suddenly shy—then: "I am interested in your body. I would like to know more about it. I have studied and read a lot about human anatomy and physiology, but books are imprecise. I would like to learn more than I can read in a book. Also, I think it would be pleasurable, but I am not sure about that. I would like to find out. I would like to touch you where you are covered with fabric. I am asking permission because I know humans have different customs about touch and mating than our people and I do not want to upset you. Would that be okay with you?"

It's Stephen's turn to blink slowly. _Mating?_ "Oh. Uh... hmm..." He can't think of anything intelligent to say to that. _Fucking_ _translation_ _spell_.

Yellow-Spotted tips his head to the side quizzically—another universal gesture—and Stephen realizes the other sorcerer's own translation spell must be having a hell of a time making sense of what he's just said.

"What I mean is..." He swallows past the sudden dryness in his throat, starts again. "I need a moment to think about it."

_And what the fuck is he thinking, exactly?_

_Should he do this? Should they do this?_ He's never really had any hang-ups about sex—he's certainly not opposed to trying new things, never has been in the past. But this is on a whole new level. He considers the fact that he may be slightly intoxicated right now.  _Is that clouding his judgement?_ Unlikely, he concludes, he still feels like he could say no if he wanted to. _But does he want to? Is this just some weird by-product of the link between them? Is the desire he feels his own? Does it really matter whose emotion it is if he's feeling it too?_ It's been—he does a quick calculation in his head—over two years since he's had sex. _Pretty sad..._ It would be nice to have that kind of connection with someone else again.

Maybe he's already been here too long, if sex with a squid seems like a good idea. A very friendly, very appealing squid...

Stephen shrugs. _What_ _the_ _hell_ , he thinks. _When in Rome and all that_... "Okay."

Os makes a happy clicking sound. "I know a lot about human anatomy. I will not do anything that will be dangerous to you." Os's voice in his head sounds a little too excited.

Stephen wonders just how invasive this might get. _Though... with tentacles involved, what did he expect?_ "Uh, okay."

His sudden nervousness has obviously been sensed. The tentacles in question pull him in a little closer, give him a reassuring full-body squeeze. "I will feel if you are afraid or in pain, and I will stop. Because I will feel it, too," Yellow-Spotted says, confidently.

 _Well, that's alright then_ , Stephen manages to think before warmth and comfort flood his mind, and he relaxes again into os's soft embrace.

And, suddenly, things are happening. _Sex, apparently. Sex with an alien squid, apparently_. He thinks he must be losing his mind. He thinks maybe he should take off his clothes, but he feels too uncoordinated right now to manage such a monumental task. And, besides, it hardly matters anyway: smooth, warm limbs are already creeping up under his shirt and slipping into the waistband of his pants. Another is sliding up his leg, wrapping around and around his calf as it climbs. _Exactly how many tentacles do these guys have anyway? And how do they feel so good right now?_

He runs his trembling hands over Yellow-Spotted's slightly bumpy skin. It's surprisingly velvety and soft, like the skin of an octopus he'd held once on a diving trip in Fiji. _Appropriate_ , he thinks.

"Is it okay if I touch you?" He needs to be sure that he's not breaking some alien rule.

Os says, "Yes. I like to be touched," and hums happily.

He runs his hand down os's body, following the path of one of the tentacles down to where it's resting against his chest. He can feel strong muscles shifting just underneath the surface of all that soft skin. The end of the tentacle wraps loosely around his hand as he examines it. The dorsal surface is the same texture as the rest of Yellow-Spotted's body, but the underside is slightly rougher, and covered in little raised disks, clearly for gripping. Stephen's already seen just how dexterous they can be—exchanging money and goods in the market, using a touch pad, casting spells. He runs his fingers along the bottom and os clicks softly, laughing.

"Ticklish?" Stephen wonders if they even have a word for that.

"Yes. It is a good feeling. Not funny."

Ah. _That_ he understands.

He caresses the tentacle again, teasingly, and Yellow-Spotted returns the favor. Stephen gasps as one of the tentacles in his pants brushes over his now painfully hard cock.

Yellow-Spotted shudders beside him.

"Interesting," os says. The feelings of arousal/excitement—and now pleasure—seem to double in Stephen's head and he moans helplessly as the tentacle curls around him, alternately squeezing and relaxing, massaging him.

Yellow-Spotted makes an odd, soft sound, like a cross between a purr and a trill, that Stephen's sure he's never heard os make before. "Your penis feels very good when I do that," os says.

Stephen chuckles breathlessly, says, "We really need to work on your dirty talk." _Translate_ _that!_  But he has to agree: it does feel very, very good. And he's so distracted by the tentacle around his cock and a second one fondling his balls, that he almost doesn't notice another sneaking down to his ass.

It tries to press into him, but at his slight twinge of pain— _much too dry for that to work_ , he thinks vaguely—it leaves off in favor of brushing against him. And that also feels pretty damn good.

Yellow-Spotted runs a soothing tentacle along his cheek and down to his neck. "I did not realize you were ( _something untranslatable_ ) there," os clicks. "I would like to try something else." And then, "It will be easier if this fabric is gone."

Suddenly the tentacles are pulling his pants down and off, and Stephen can't even bring himself to care anymore. _Should he care?_ He's not really sure. Os's tentacles on his cock are relentless. And the feedback loop of sensation between the two of them is making it very hard to think rationally.

Yellow-Spotted pushes and pulls at his legs until they're wrapped around the base of os's body, just above where the tentacles sprout.

So many tentacles…

Stephen hadn't realized they had so many. He's seen the larger ones used for walking and grabbing and touching, of course—they're currently busy molesting his whole body—but he's never noticed these small, slender ones before. They must have been tucked up underneath os's body. _Around the mouth? Inside the mouth?_ They writhe around like glistening worms, tickling his legs.

Yellow-Spotted shifts around a bit, and another tentacle emerges from the writhing mass. This one is different—not as thick as the walking appendages, smooth and pale, and tapered to blunt an end with a small slit. As Stephen watches, it contracts slightly. Clear, viscous fluid dribbles out of the slit and slides slowly down along the length.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out where that's going to go… Stephen breathes harshly as the tentacle moves down and slides back behind his balls, teases his anus.

"Hectocotylus," Yellow-Spotted says, obviously sensing his question. And Stephen's sure he doesn't know what that word means, but he must have known it at some point because the translation spell has just pulled it from his mind. "It is for mating."

Whatever it is, it slips inside him easily—slick and warm—stretching him out and burning just slightly as it goes in. _Oh shit!_ He throws his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, panting.

And then it pushes further, shoving in gently, then pulling back just a bit—fucking him. And it keeps going, pushing into him.  _Too_ _far_ , he thinks. _Too_ _much_. But there's no pain. Not really. And then his partner trills loudly and shivers against him and he can feel the tentacle pulsing inside. Warmth flooding into him, filling him.

And... _Oh_ , _God!_ _How does that feel so good?_

He gasps as a slow, liquid heat spreads through him, moving out from his pelvis in shivering waves of sensation. Tentacles cradle his thighs as his muscles go slack and he sinks back into the sofa, head spinning. _Definitely something in that fluid,_ he thinks, fuzzily, brain muffled under a heavy blanket of intense pleasure. _Some kind of... what's that thing called again? Drug?_

"What's... what is that...?" he manages to gasp. Hard to remember how to use words right now...

Yellow-spotted stops trilling briefly to click, "Chemicals." More trilling, then: "Hormones"—trill, hiss—"for mating. To make your partner... receptive... for mating." Yellow-Spotted's 'voice' in his head is garbled, words fading in and out of a background of alien sounds. So easy to imagine os slightly out of breath, overcome in the same way that he is.

And Stephen realizes that his spell is just as useless here as it was in the marketplace—inadequate to the task of transmuting the sounds they are making into words. They don't need it now, anyway. Their bodies are joined together in every possible way—the anatomy might be exotic, but the pleasure between them is familiar.

The thin tentacles are getting in on the action too, he realizes. A few of them— _three? four?_ Impossible to tell in his current state—are squeezing into him past the mating tentacle, slipping in deeper when it moves gently in and out. He's so slick and drunk on hormones that he barely registers the additional stretch, only the way they wriggle inside, exploring him.

"They are for precise tactile sensations... And for feeding... Taste." Os hisses and trembles, also having trouble finding words, apparently. "You taste... very ( _untranslatable_ )... very good."

And then one of the little ones is sliding up his cock and rubbing against the slit. And then it's slipping inside his urethra and moving down.  _Oh_ _shit_.

"Uh... I don't know if... if this, uh... is a good idea," he manages to gasp out. The small portion of his mind that can remember being a doctor thinks that this is probably a really good way to get an alien UTI. " _Fuck!"_

The damn thing is already at least an inch or two inside him, though. _Does it really matter now?_ The tentacle in his ass releases another flood of hormones and his thoughts fade out into white noise, muscles relaxing. He suddenly doesn't care anymore.

He's had a Foley catheter in him before, of course, but this doesn't feel exactly like that. There's an odd burning, stretching feeling and also a tickling sensation, like he needs to urinate or come but his body can't quite make up its mind. He writhes in the grip of the tentacles, panting and moaning softly, gasping for breath.

 _Oh._ "That's… uh _…_ what?" _Is he saying that out loud?_

Yellow-Spotted trills back at him, strokes him softly, soothingly. "Safe... Okay? Safe. Yes... I am careful... Yes... will not hurt you. It is good... good."

He can feel it working its way down into his cock, pushing forward and pulling back carefully as it advances deeper. He can't quite tell where it is, though. His body is thoroughly confused, trapped between too many different sensations at once—the tentacle squeezing around his cock, the one in his ass, the one currently inching its way into his urethra. And then it's doing something inside him that sends a sudden jolt of electricity through his pelvis. _Pressing against his prostate_ , he realizes way too late. _God, it's so hard to fucking think!_

And he suddenly needs to come very, very badly. _Or maybe he already has…?_ _Maybe he's coming right now?_ He can't even tell what's happening anymore.

" _Please_... oh... fuck!  _Please_ ," he moans. _Please stop? Please keep going?_ Stephen's not even sure what he wants to say. His voice sounds shockingly rough in his own ears. He's right on the edge of something. He's flying apart.

"Almost," Yellow-Spotted says. "Almost"—os trills and clicks—"finished. You are"—os shivers violently against him—"You are ( _untranslatable_ ). Good. You feel very"—the trilling is so loud that Stephen can feel it humming through him everywhere they're joined together, deep inside him—"So good. I need to ( _untranslatable_ ). I want to... I want to very much... Almost finished."

The tentacle in his cock— _is it in his bladder now? it seems like it might be_ —is pushing gently in and out, driving him crazy. The one on the outside, moving up  and down his length in the same slow and steady rhythm. And then the one in his ass expands and pulses, releasing... something different. He can feel it filling his insides, hot and liquid. He's so hard, he's aching.

"What are you doing... _ah!_...now?" He can barely form words recognizable enough to be translated. _Maybe he should stop trying…_

Yellow-Spotted is trembling now, soft skin vibrating beneath his hands, and the feeling coming off of him in waves and crashing into Stephen is one of indescribable pleasure. And, yet, os's voice in Stephen's head is just as controlled and technical as ever. "I am... releasing my (untranslatable)... My spermatophore... will not harm you... Good. It feels... good. It is pleasurable... for me.... And for you. You feel very good."

"Oh, fuck. That's... _Fuck!_ " He does feel good, so good—but he can't even tell if the pleasure is coming from his body or os's. Or both...  _Does it even matter anymore?_

The tentacles convulse inside him. And then he's crying out and coming, his muscles trying to tense, clenching around the intrusions penetrating him even though he can't... _He can't!_ How can he be coming with the tentacle still inside him? And, yet, he is. Somehow, it's still happening. Or maybe os is coming... How can he tell anymore which of them is which?

His orgasm— _their orgasm_ —seems to go on forever, wringing the last of the strength out of him, until he's weak and whimpering, then sweeping him away like a tide pulling everything back out to sea. And he drifts along with it down into darkness—lost and finally without words.

 

***

 

His first thought when he wakes up is to wonder why he feels so salty all over, like he's been swimming in the ocean and let it dry on his skin. He's confused. _And what is that...?_ Something warm and soft is wrapped around him. Actually, many warm and soft things are wrapped around him. He stares blearily at one of Yellow-Spotted's familiar tentacles before realizing that the alien is actually in the bed with him, pressed up against his back. They're spooning. He's being spooned by a squid.

_What? Why?_

And then he remembers what happened last night—what they'd done.

_Oh shit!_

Sex. They had sex. Weird alien sex. With tentacles. And it was... pretty damn good.

He moves his legs carefully, trying to decide if he's somehow damaged his body last night, but he feels good. _He should definitely get up and pee_ , he thinks,  _should have done that last night_. Nothing hurts, though, he's just a little sore, like he's been out for a run. And salty. He's salty.

Yellow-Spotted stirs beside him, giving him a little squeeze. "Hello," os clicks. Stephen can feel everything behind the word: _happiness, contentment, satisfaction._

He clears his throat. "Good morning." And he realizes that it is, actually, a pretty good morning. 

"You are aroused again."

Stephen can't tell if that's a statement or a question. ""Uh, yeah... That, uh... happens sometimes. In the morning."

"For my people, too, this is normal." Os makes a soft purring sound, trails a tentacle down his chest. "It also happens sometimes when there is an attractive human in the bed."

Stephen can't help chuckling. Yellow-Spotted is definitely getting better at dirty talk. Or maybe they've finally broken the translation spell.

The tentacle slips down further, wraps around him. _And, oh, that feels good_. He groans. "I suppose we could, uh, try mating again. If you want. I don't have anywhere I need to be right now."

Yellow-Spotted hums happily. And Stephen doesn't need a spell to translate that sound into words. 

 


End file.
